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He grabs another drink off a passing waiter’s tray, depositing the empty one. “You could be if you didn’t complain so much.”

I fold my arms. “You know what I think?”

“Enlighten me,” he replies, throwing the drink back.

“You didn’t bring me here to fuck. You brought me here as protection.”

He laughs, but his expression remains flat. “How’s a little girl like you going to protect a man like me?”

“Not that kind of protection.” I jerk my chin at the women surrounding us. It’s more than just Christine and Trudie. Every female, and possibly even a few males in spitting distance, watch him with a perverse hunger in their eyes. “They want you.”

He swallows the last of his drink. It’s champagne. I try not to think too hard about the last time he drank champagne in my presence. “Everyonewants me, Red.”

Fair. “Buttheythink they’re entitled to it. Why?”

Something in his eyes darkens–a wildness that sends a tremor down my spine–and when he presses his hand on my back, pushing me down an empty hallway, my options are to make a scene or follow obediently.

Jaw clenched, I follow.

My heels click against the marble floors, and the second we’re out of sight of the ballroom, he pushes my back against the wall, trapping me in with his body, strong and powerful. Heedless of my frightened flinch, he presses a palm to the space next to my head, hemming me in. “Let me make something clear, Princess.” A casual observer might assume we’re being intimate, his face leaning close to mine, but looking into his eyes, that’s not what this is about. He’s pissed. “I don’t need a therapist. I need a Princess. Your job tonight is to look pretty and have your pussy ready when I want it.”

I shove against his chest with my hand, but he doesn’t budge. “My jobisto serve you–to support you when you need it. But I can’t do that while you and everyone else hides everything from me!”

His jaw tics, gaze pinging from my eyes to my mouth. My heart thunders, terrified of pushing him too far, testing his patience, because although Wicker uses me, he doesn’t hurt me. Not outside of his blind lust. Not since that first night.

Something tells me he could, though.

If he wanted to.

“You know what you need to know,” he replies, pitching closer when a couple stumbles, laughing, down the hall toward the bathrooms. As they pass, he brushes his lips across my cheek, making me tense up. Wicker’s chest jumps with a scoff. “Except, apparently, how to properly be with a man.”

Hot indignation rises, along with the memory of his accusation about me being unsexy. "Need I remind you,” I grind out, “of the chair that took my virginity?"

The couple is gone now, and he jerks back, hissing, "Jesus Christ, I'm so sick of hearing you whine about that. So you had your cherry popped and it was shitty. Boo-fucking-hoo.” Flinging a hand out, he gestures to the crowd at the end of the hall. “Ask around, Princess. No one had a fun time losing their virginity. You came into the masquerade as a grown ass woman, knowing well and fucking good there might be something in store for you." His eyes rake up and down my body, lip curling in disdain. "That's a choice, and it's more than most Royal women get."

Bitterly, I ask, "And what do Royal men get?"

His eyes flash with such sudden, fiery rage that I press back into the wall, as if I could get away. "You want to know what we get?" The arm beside my head tenses as his blue eyes hold mine. "Fine. Ask me how old I was when I lost my virginity."

The words bring me up short. "What?"

"Ask me,” he repeats, low and hard. The look in his eyes is a dare, and I’m not sure I should take it.

"How old were you?" I ask, searching his eyes.

I think I must be expecting some terrible boast. Wicker Ashby would probably do that–flaunt around the fact that he was banging high school bimbos left and right. Or maybe he’d brag about waiting for the right one. The perfect set of tits. The ideal lay.

What I’m not expecting is the cold, sharp smirk.

And I’m definitely not expecting his answer.

"I was ten."

I suck in a shocked breath, my heart sinking. "That's… that’svile," I say, face twisting as I look at him. To think of someone doing that? It makes my stomach lurch. "That's not losing your virginity, Wicker. That's ra–"

He slams his hand over my mouth and his body into mine. He’s so close I can feel his hair tickle my forehead as he leans over, blue eyes piercing. “That’sForsyth.”

Our gaze holds, and for a moment, I see past his beauty–past the smug, arrogant exterior–to the boy lurking underneath. There’s anger in his eyes, frustration, even some satisfaction at my reaction. But there’s also an unfathomable hurt.